


cases of Impressionism.

by ikhannnnnt



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, Budding Love, Detective Sherlock, F/M, Intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikhannnnnt/pseuds/ikhannnnnt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an attempt at writing Mr. Holmes, for science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cases of Impressionism.

Even before she turned the corner onto Baker St., she knew he was in residence once again. She could hear it already, the waning of the violin strings carrying a solemn tune on the wind over to her. It was something new, not that she had heard so very many "Lock" compositions, but she knew enough of him at present to know that he rarely repeated himself in art, even in thought, no less music. Another creation, another masterpiece. oh Sherlock, she thought with a smile, already feeling that nervous excitement in the anticipation of seeing him again. 

She mused. 

Though he was still a great intimidation to her, even despite the self-confidence with which she equipped herself, gracing about with the airs of a Queen, he still made her feel somewhat less than adequate. It was no fault of his really, having such strong intellect, an accomplished vocabulary, relevant opinions, a fascinating knack for deductions and the like. No, she couldn't blame him for being any one other than who he was and she was not one to reproach an elitist, especially when it was one who so very much continued to intrigue her, and intrigued her, Mr. Holmes had. Captivated her, really. 

She smiled.

Their acquaintance had just sort of happened, perhaps coincidental though later that night on a shared cab ride to home, he had disproved this notion to her, advising in a lofty tone that the universe was rarely so lazy in such regards. So then was it fate perhaps? "No, over-romanticized, non-existent. dull", he had said, debasing her semi-sarcastic theory as he sat in repose, studying her in relative darkness - noticing how the street lamps illuminated her face in brief intervals, quite beautiful actually, he thought, as she pondered away out loud of how they came to be "together". 

She had quickly surmised that night, in the short hour or so that they had been more or less in the general vicinity of one another at an art house in the city, that neither of them wanted to be there. For her, it had been to support a friend who had an art piece on display for the month's exhibition and although quite appreciative of the arts, installations always translated to her as "misplaced shit" upon viewing. For him, its so obvious now thinking back to it, it had been for a case, nothing over-zealous in nature, he later confided to her, but complex enough to provoke an actual appearance to "deduce an additional thing or two." 

That night, she was so soon abandoned by her friend only moments after arriving, when an uneasiness of disinterestedly moving through the gallery alone had descended on her in a bad way. She knew her purpose there was for appearance's sake, and as she refused to be a bad friend, she had decided to stay for awhile. 

And so, in taking a turn down one of the darker corridors of the art house, where the overhead lights were dimmed, the music more muted, the crowd all but gone except for a lone figure of a man down the way, she had exhaled. Tick, Tock. The time had dragged as she walked further down, eventually stopping where the man in the dark coat was stood in stare at an impressionist interpretation of a cornfield. She thought him attractive, gathering from his profile, his hair, his clothes or maybe just more so because she was notorious for having a "type" in regards to specific physical attributes of the opposite sex, and he had her mentally checking her "all the above" categories box even from this one look. one angle. 

...and he had been in apparent entrancement of the painting by the way he had made no acknowledgement of her presence, standing so near to him, but when she broke the silence with a conversational statement of "That's a nice piece", he actually replied to her with a mumbled "Best I've seen tonight, which isn't saying much..." without turning to face her. 

"If thats the case, you seem-", he had turned to her then, cutting her off with a forceful inquiry laced in half enthusiasm, half accusation. 

"if what's the case? this isn't a case. what case?"  
"I meant for having a low opinion of the art, you seemed rather interested in it."   
When he didn't speak, she continued, " You've been staring at it for at least the ten minutes I've been in this room already."

He had taken a moment to comprehend her observation. "ohhhh. Nope. I was counting the brush strokes on it. That particular painting seemed the most challenging since the artist, not that one "J. Buttersfield" should be so worthy of such a foolhardy title, apparently mistook his talents likening them to the greater Van Gogh. Its quite an absurdity actually, but its helping pass the time."

"I understand, hence my moving along at a glacial pace, willing time to move faster, so I can leave." He seemed amused by her response and something attuned to approval in her blase attitude of the night's event. She was encouraged and he, she thought, was gorgeous. "You're clearly an unwilling participant in tonight's festivities as well as I am. Don't tell me, you have a amateur artist friend up in this scene too, who you're here on behalf of for support?"

"To support an amateur? Why would anyone waste their time?"  
"Thats what friends do, I suppo-"   
"I don't have friends. Not really. Well, maybe."  
"Oh come, then why are you here?"  
"Not entirely sure, I just popped in for a look."  
"You're lying."  
"You think so?"

Was this flirting or ...? He was hard to read and she wasn't one to come on strong, but damn if he wasn't a curious one. "Who are you?", she asked him. 

He smirked then, eluding her question and providing one of his own-  
"Are you ready to leave?"   
"Ye-yes"  
"Then let's go."

So they had left, walking together back up towards the main gallery, through the crowd and out the front entrance, without a backwards glance to seek out her friend. And it was standing in the cold wet on the pavement outside, waiting to hale a passing cab, that they made their first formal introduction to one another. And although Sherlock Holmes had initially disappointed her when he did not instigate anything more of the night with her, instead insisting only that they share the ride as her destination was in route to where he "was headed", he had, in so many ways, over the months since, dispelled her crestfallen attitude towards his character which at first glance, seemed made up of armor or stone, impenetrable in his aloofness. 

Now, she felt that she was beginning to understand him as no one else ever had, and it was obvious that he, in turn, was opening himself to her in a possible attempt to be understood, because why? because maybe he cared for her enough to let her "in" and that maybe, maybe together, it was likely, though frightening, that they were both evoking feelings in one another that no one prior had ever dared to conjure. 

Which brings us back to the now.  
and I am not...unaware of your beauty.

**Author's Note:**

> (never to be continued)


End file.
